I guess I’m shaving again

I started dancing. Not in the club every evening with Nairobians trying to avoid jam, cops and a loveless household, but practicing. Not for cardio, but also kind of for cardio, and kind of for fun.

The thing is, I’ve never really liked the gym. I’ve always said I wanted to go. I’ve always planned to. I own like three sports bras. I’ve even walked into gyms and asked for little fliers with prices that I usually throw away after looking at the treadmill thoughtfully like we’re going to be friends. It has never happened. Me and exercise are not friends. I don’t necessarily even want new friends, especially ones that make you do activities that involve getting off your couch and into a sweat.

But then I turned a year older and suddenly I’m freaking out about how I’m going to look a decade from now. Sure, black don’t crack, but is that from genes or must there be effort put into it? Like, are Vaseline on my skin and my grandfather’s prayers enough? What if it isn’t? Do I want to risk it? I don’t. I want to be the hot childfree aunty who is confused for the hot childfree aunty. So what can I do that’ll keep me kinda sorta fit sijui what sijui what?

I can dance, or learn to or whatever (I’m so unenthusiastic about voluntary exertion. Can you tell?). So I signed up for a salsa class. With a great instructor. He’s like patient and doesn’t laugh at my jokes. Which is a blow to my ego because I think I’m hilarious. The first class was last week and it was fun but I was sweating like a skewered pig over a slow roast by the end of it. I felt sorry for the poor guy. He had to like hold my back and stuff because we were dancing in the closed position at some points and that involves physical contact.

So to reduce the rivulets, we’ll start with shaving and then see what the plan is from there. Yup, I stopped shaving because of a man and I’m starting again because of another. Poor guy. Woi. Wooooiye.